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by Cielo_Notturno__Liriel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bruises, Complicated Relationships, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom!Peter, Dom/sub, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Mention of blood, Mention of various rough stuff, Not Canon Compliant, POV First Person, POV Lydia Martin, Peter is a Little Shit, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Second Thoughts, Sub!Lydia, arguably safe, fuck buddies, fully consensual, not really sane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cielo_Notturno__Liriel/pseuds/Cielo_Notturno__Liriel
Summary: My sin and my obsession, crazy desire you bringPlease raise your eyes and want me, please give me all the chancesI feel a wave of passion, move through my heart with such painI have no time for reason, so I just let passion reignI let go so easily, on a night as warm as sinMidnight swimmer, midnight sea, I will not come back again.





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**Author's Note:**

> Summary is from The Hunchback of Notre Dame musical, "Your love will kill me"

I stare at my phone. 

No missed calls. 

One message from Stiles _(R u ok, Lyds?)_ and one from my mom _(Remember to buy a present for Aunt Sophie’s birthday)._

Nothing from _him_. Not that I had really expected anything. 

I sigh. When will I learn? Not anytime soon, apparently.

He won’t call, he won’t text, he won’t ask to meet. Until he will. In a weird way, it became a pattern. 

Why did I ever have sex with Peter Hale, of all people? He’s always been a prick. A handsome, scary, powerful, sadistic prick. Yes, that was it. 

It was sane, safe and consensual enough, our first time. I loved everything he did to me. I loved his growls, and his claws, and his wolf eyes, and the many toys he liked to use, and the way he held me down. He loved my screams, my pleads for mercy, he loved that I could enjoy his darker side. We had talked about it, and we had a safeword in place. All was right, wasn’t it?

Then, the day after, he didn’t call. I was in drop, and in pain, and he didn’t call. It should have been the end of the whole affair. A wild night, and then a clean cut. But then he called again, just to tell me he hadn’t forgotten me. Then nothing again. Months passed, years. He wasn’t even in Beacon Hills, most of the time. I had some lovers, but no one was my wolf, with his murdering blue eyes. Every couple of years or so, he would text again. We would meet, and it would be pain and ecstasy, and he would disappear afterwards. He never made me come, not once. Not because of some orgasm denial game. He just never put any effort towards it. 

What is even wrong with me? To crave him so much? I know I should show myself more respect. I don’t deserve this. Oh, the pain is more than fine. But not like that. Not from someone who treats me as if I am disposable. Something that’s there for him, in the rare occasion he remembers that I exist. 

 

He had called me, two nights ago. He didn’t even have the grace to ask the day before. He just asked if I was free that night, and how much time would it take for me to be ready? The answer was, less than half an hour. I actually had nothing better to do, that evening. 

It had been two years since last time. Ten, since the first. Any negotiation we ever made was a decade old. I doubt he remembers much of it, and my tastes have changed a bit in time. 

_Yes._  

That was all I told him. That’s how bad I still want him. No negotiation, no safeword, just timid hints at what I might like. Everything was about him and his pleasure, and my pain. I like pain, I do, but not like that. Start soft, let it build up, and I’ll love it. With other partners, I stood up to two hours of whipping, and I was fine. Him? He didn’t bother with warm-up. One moment I was closing the door, and then he threw me on the bed and bit my nipple so hard he drew blood. All the evening was like that. Sharp, sudden pain, and me pleasuring him, and more pain _while_ I was pleasuring him. I actually liked that part. 

When he finally decided to fuck me, I was a bit apprehensive. I hadn’t had sex in more than a year. Not because I was waiting for him -I truly wasn’t- it just hadn’t happened. I would have loved to have some good sex, or even some decent sex. I didn’t tell him that. I held still, as he positioned me on the bed, on my hands and knees, my shoulders low on the bed, my ass in the air. I didn’t complain as he took me brutally from behind, with no preparation or any kind of foreplay. At least he used a condom, without needing to be reminded. Any hope of pleasure was swallowed by pain. I didn’t complain, because I’ve fantasized about it so much, and in theory, I was one hundred percent ok with it. Being ok with it didn’t make it any more pleasurable. He sliced at my ass with his claws, half-shifted, and _that_ , I liked. When he finished inside me, it was a relief. 

 

I called Stiles, my best friend, the day after. He knows about Peter and me, and he disapproves. 

“Did you at least enjoy yourself, Lyds?”

The worst part is that I don’t know. It wasn’t all that great. And yet, it was more than I had with anyone else in so long. Do I dare call Peter and tell him? That I would like some more time to adjust to the pain? That I actually prefer gentle lovemaking? And why would he listen? I am nothing to him. God knows how many other lovers he has. I am pretty sure he’s in some sort of weird relationship with Chris Argent, but I don’t know any details, and to be honest, I don’t care. I am just one more toy who happens to be available. 

I should just tell him to go fuck himself. I saw myself in the mirror. I look like I was hit by a truck. I don’t need medical attention, but I have bruises, and cuts, and whip and bite marks, and he could not spare one moment to even try and give me any kind of pleasure. He got to come twice. 

So, the last thing I should do is staring at my phone, hoping that maybe this time will be different, that maybe we could meet sooner, and talk more, and find ways to make things more enjoyable for both of us. 

Who am I fooling? Things won’t change, now will they?

I look again at my bruised breasts. At the small crusts of dried blood, where his fangs pierced the skin. I hate it. And most of all, I hate the thought that roars inside me, louder than the rest of my confused feelings.

_More._

 


End file.
